


The Chapters Between

by laurelinvanyar



Series: Bound Pages [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5319446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurelinvanyar/pseuds/laurelinvanyar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random Drabbles set before my main work, The Tales We Tell Ourselves. May not be in chronological order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Written in Salt (Cloudreach, 9:32 Dragon)

**Written in Salt (Cloudreach, 9:32 Dragon)**

“--only eleven, Shanna! Too young to be involved in a Judgement of this scale.”

Ellorian is _not_ snooping. Snooping is what naughty children do when they are supposed to be working, wasting time listening to their elders’ private conversations when there are hours of sunlight still in the sky and chores still to do. She sits cross-legged against the felted side of the Keeper’s big tent, pretending to be absorbed in mending a worn seam in her best tunic. _If I look busy, nobody will question why I’m here._

“--can’t coddle her forever, Raelorn. She must learn to--”

The bone needle weaves in and out, thread slipping easily through the linen; the cloth is Papae’s favorite color, a blue like the sky on a cloudless day. Ellorian smooths it down so the stitches don’t pucker. 

“Creators, woman! She’s _my_ daughter too!”

Hands steady. Loop around and through the first stitch, pull tight. Again and again until she can tie it off. Her shoulders hunch at Papae’s tone. _Please don’t fight. I’m old enough, just like Mamae said._

“You’re right, my husband. She _is_ your daughter--”

Mamae’s voice is soft and sweet, but Ellorian can hear Papae’s feet shifting on the hides covering the tent floor. Ellorian hunches down a little farther. She knows what’s coming next. 

“--is the reason you married me instead of _that woman_ , isn’t that right? _Your_ mother wanted a granddaughter of the blood. Well, now she has one. Your _duty_ is complete.”

Papae sounds so tired. “I might not have loved you when we married, but I’ve never seen _any_ of my children as a duty.” He sighs. “It’s been nearly fifteen years. When will you stop holding Aderyn over my head? I did everything I could, ended it with her the very day our betrothal was announced. I have never once been unfaithful to you. I even let you send her away to--”

“ _Let_ me. You? Let _me_?” Mamae’s voice is tight with fury. “I am the _High Keeper of Mythal_. You do _not_ command me. And you are unfaithful to me _every time you close your eyes_ \--”

“Dread Wolf take you!” Papae roars so loudly that Ellorian flinches, the tunic crumpling between her fingers. “Whatever bitterness lies between us, let it stay there! Ellorian is just a child, Deshanna, and I won’t sit here while you _use_ her like--”

“Be silent!” The command comes like a whip crack. “Ellorian was born for a greater purpose! You _knew_ any mage daughter of ours would follow me, as I followed Nirala. She is a sword of the People, and one day she will speak as the voice of the All-Mother in my place. She stopped belonging only to _you_ the moment her magic manifested.”

The tent is quiet for a long heartbeat. Ellorian holds her breath, straining to hear any signs of movement. 

“Whatever fate the clan has for her, whatever schemes my mother had to keep the Scales of Judgement within Lavellan blood; she is still my daughter, Deshanna. Is it wrong of me to shelter her for as long as I can? She is only--”

“You’re snooping again!”

Ellorian yelps in startlement, a bead of blood welling up from her pricked fingertip. She hastily tucks it in her mouth, sucking the blood away before it can stain the linen. “Go away, Emaris!”

Emaris glares down at her. Though her brother is only two years older, he is already a full head taller so Ellorian must crane her neck to glare back. “I ought to tell Mamae that you were spying on her instead of preparing for the Judgement.”

“I was _not_ snooping!” Ellorian stands, brandishing the tunic like a flail; it hits his arm with a satisfying _thwap._ “I--”

The tent flaps part and Raelorn Lavellan steps through, his mouth a stern line. “Ellorian. You know better than to--”

“Mamae summoned me. And I _wasn’t_ snooping.” She holds out the tunic, points to the new stitchery. “See?”

Papae’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “I see, da’len. I _also_ see that you decided to do your mending with your ear pressed to the tent.” He shakes his greying head, his long braid swaying behind him. “What are we to do with you? Mark my words, one day your curiosity will lead you _right_ into the Dread Wolf’s jaws and your poor old Papae won’t always be around to pull you out.”

Ellorian stares at her feet. _The Dread Wolf will have to catch me first_ , she thinks mutinously. “I’m sorry, Papae.”

Raelorn sighs. “I know that look. You’re only sorry you were caught.” He glances back at the tent and the lines around his mouth deepen. “Your mother will decide your punishment.”

Emaris snorts. “Right. As if she will _ever_ punish--”

“Watch your mouth, da’len.” Raelorn’s voice brooks no further argument with his son. “When you are Keeper of your own clan, with children of your own, you may discipline your charges as you see fit. Until then you must abide by your mother’s decisions.” His face softens. “Come on. I need to get the patrols all settled with Clan Vaharel.” He ruffles Emaris’ hair and calls over his shoulder to Ellorian. “Tell your mother I’ll meet her in the pavilion for the Judgement.”

Ellorian watches them go, fidgeting. _Dallying won’t make Mamae’s temper any better. I’d better go inside._ She takes a deep breath before pulling aside the tent flaps. “Papae said to tell you--”

“I heard him, da’len.”

Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan, Keeper of Clan Lavellan, High Keeper of Mythal, betrays no hint of agitation on her face. She is the epitome of cool grace; countenance serene as she fastens heavy strands of raw pearls around her throat, each the size of a thumb-joint. “Come here, da’era. Help me with this.” She sits on the edge of the bedroll and pulls her long hair over her shoulder. 

“Yes, Keeper.” Ellorian crosses the tent to stand behind her mother, obediently fastening each clasp. Each strand of luminous oblong beads is longer than the last; together they drape across Deshanna’s chest from neck to sternum. “I’m old enough to serve at the Judgement. Why is Papae angry?” _Please don’t fight over me._

“So you heard that, did you? My clever little mage.” Deshanna doesn’t turn. Her hands begin to twist her loose hair into one intricate braid, fingers deft with long practice. “You know that we both love you, don’t you? Even if Mamae and Papae don’t love each other?”

“I know,” says Ellorian. 

“Your father would shield you from the world’s ills. A natural enough reaction, for any parent.” Deshanna ties off her braid with a leather thong and turns to face her daughter. “But he forgets what you are, what you must become.” Her eyes search Ellorian’s face for...something. 

Ellorian keeps her face still under her mother’s scrutiny. _I wish I knew what Mamae is looking for._

“To be a Keeper, especially a High Keeper for the All-Mother, you must be tempered as a sword is tempered. It is better you learn your lessons early rather than late.” She sighs and gestures to the bedroll. “Attend, da’era, and learn.” 

Ellorian obediently takes a seat facing her mother. _I’ll prove I’m old enough. I’ll prove I can learn all I need to, and then Mamae and Papae won’t need to fight._

“Your father’s sister was supposed to take your grandmother’s place as High Keeper. When she died of a fever with no daughters, Nirala chose me to succeed her.”

Though she has heard this story before, Ellorian keeps silent; she knows better than to interrupt a lesson.

“I left my clan to train under her and to marry your father, to keep the title in Lavellan blood. My own mother told me that we would come to love one another in time. In time, she said, it will be as if you are one person; one heart, one mind, one will.” Deshanna’s face remains calm, but her eyes harden. ”My mother _lied_ to me, to protect me from the truth. Your father was in love with someone else, but I was so blinded by everyone’s reassurances I did not know until I saw him look at her during our wedding feast. And I knew, I just knew, that he would never look at _me_ like that.” 

“Like what?” Ellorian blurts out the question before she can stop herself. She quails at her mother’s frown. “Ir abelas, Keeper. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

Deshanna takes her daughter’s face between her hands. “One day, you too will marry for duty, for the clan. But I will not lie to you. You will not be caught by surprise, as I was. If he loves you, your husband will look at you like you are the only woman in Thedas. He will kiss you as if he wishes to steal the breath from your lungs, and you will know he wants you and only you.”

Ellorian knows better than to pull away from her mother’s grip, but she wrinkles her nose. _Yuck. Boys. Kissing._

“I will not lie to you, da’era. This Judgement will be hard, but you must not flinch. You must not shame me before the Eye of Vengeance. All of Clan Vaharel will be watching.” Deshanna pulls her daughter into an embrace. “Can you be strong, for me? For Lavellan?”

“I can do it, I promise.” The pearls dig into the side of Ellorian’s face. “I promise, Mamae.” _Creators, please. Let me prove to Papae that I am ready. Let me not shame the clan._

“Good.” Deshanna gives a rare smile. “Now, let me see that tunic.” She hums over the fresh stitches. “Acceptable. I suppose it will have to do. Get changed.”

 _Acceptable._ Ellorian tries not to bite her lip. She shrugs off her cotton shirt for the linen tunic, the blue cloth dangling nearly to her knees. _If I’m careful with the sleeves, maybe they won’t notice the seam._

Deshanna opens a large chest carved with spreading oak leaves and pulls out a ribbon of black silk. “Hold this.” She waits for Ellorian to take it before pulling out a salt cellar and a silver bowl.

Ellorian rubs her thumbs in circles against the ribbon; the material is so fine even her calluses don’t catch. The fabric feels like water between her fingers. Ellorian holds it over her eyes: the world becomes shadowed and hazy, but she can still make out her mother’s face through the sheer cloth. “Oh! You can still see!”

“That’s the trick with justice, da’era. No judge is impartial; justice is never truly blind. Even Mythal needed to weigh her decisions carefully. But the People must _believe_ me to be, or else they will become resentful.” Deshanna takes a ribbon from Ellorian and deftly ties it across her eyes, weaving the ends into her hair. “Let it be our little secret.” She pries open the salt cellar and pours a generous handful of rough grains into the bowl before setting the cellar back in the chest and closing the chest. “I’ll do the heat. You provide the water. Not too much, mind.” She grips the bowl by twin handles carved into writhing serpents and proffers it to Ellorian. 

_Not too much? How much is too much?_ Ellorian taps her fingertips against the bowl’s inner rim and inhales deeply, drawing her mana up through her breath and releasing it as a slow trickle of frost. Her mother’s gentle fire magic melts the ice into a stream of steaming water until the vessel is nearly full to the brim. 

“That’s enough. You must be able to carry it, da’era.” Deshanna puts the handles in Ellorian’s hands, lets the full weight of silver and salt water rest in her hands. “Too heavy?”

The scales of the carved serpents dig into Ellorian’s palm, the pattern imprinting into her skin in red lines. “No, Keeper.” _Mamae doesn’t accept excuses._

Ellorian’s anxiety creeps slowly upward as the hour approaching the Judgement nears, a ball of ice in her belly growing from a walnut to a fist. _Mamae feels it too. Otherwise she would not be pacing._ Mother and daughter pass the time in a novice’s breathing exercise, a simple task meant to focus the mind for spellcasting. Ellorian draws her mana close against her skin and summons a tendril of fire to warm her cold hands. She pours all her focus into the spell: too little power and the spell will dissipate, too much and she will summon fire into her empty palm. Such is her concentration that she jumps like a startled hare when someone pulls back the tent flap; the spell flares into brilliant blue flame before Ellorian can hastily dispel it. 

“Oh! Hello!” A handsome boy with laughing green eyes bows formally to her mother, palms turned down at his sides. “Ir abelas, I did not mean to startle you. Father sent me with a message: Vaharel stands ready for the Scales of Judgement.”

“You are of Vaharel?.” Deshanna remains unruffled as ever. “What is your name?”

The boy nods so vigorously the long stripe of unshaven dark hair atop his head flops from side to side. “Thelrion, son of Andras. We await you, Highest One.” And with that, he ducks out of the tent. 

_Mythal’s mercy, I hope Mamae didn’t see._ Ellorian frantically tries to calm the butterflies gallivanting around in her stomach. Her fright fizzles into grumpiness. _He didn’t have to sneak up on us. He could have announced himself_ before _coming in._

“Thelrion, son of Andras,” Deshanna muses. “So. He will be First if the Judgement goes as his father wishes.” She shakes her head and takes up her staff. “An odd boy, but no matter. Come, da’era. It is time.”

Ellorian does her best to imitate her mother’s gliding walk: her shoulders back, her pace sedate and stately. The bowl is heavy in her hands; she concentrates on keeping the water from sloshing over the sides. The camp is nearly empty; those not on watch or ranging are crowded on a hillside overlooking the pavilion, a spreading canopy draped with fluttering cloth. The clans chatter around campfires like the crickets coming out in the evening light, Lavellan and Vaharel mingling in swirling eddies of conversation. 

At the center of the pavilion stands the focus of the evening’s entertainment: three elders of Clan Vaharel in chains. The woman and one of the men are merely bound, but the last kneels in his bindings with a paralysis rune beneath him, frozen so only his eyes move. _A mage._ Ellorian does her best to ignore how his eyes follow her; they remind her of a hunting eagles’, green and glittering with malice from his scarred and weathered face. _Thelrion’s eyes._

The boy himself stands beside another man with those same eyes, though with close-cropped hair. The stranger grounds his staff and bows to Deshanna as they enter the pavilion. “Highest One. Clan Vaharel awaits your Judgement.”

“Does it now, Andras?” Deshanna’s voice is cool, showing no signs of nerves. She folds her hands at her waist. “I must admit, it is highly irregular for one High Keeper to judge another. What say you, lethallin?”

The man-- _Andras--_ bows again. “We keep to the old ways. Whenever one of the People wronged another, they would call on Mythal for justice. Even the Eye of Vengeance cannot disagree: Elgar'nan himself bound all to abide by her verdicts. These particular crimes are within the Scales of Judgement’s purview.”

“Very well. We will proceed.” Deshanna seats herself on a low-slung camp chair, her staff across her knees. 

Ellorian takes her place at her mother’s left hand and does her best not to tremble under the gaze of the expectant crowd. She can see her father over the heads of the first few rows: he gives her a wan smile when their eyes meet. _I have to make him proud._ Ellorian stands a little straighter, holds the bowl a little bit higher. Her palms sting from pressing against the carved handles of the bowl. _I have to make him see that I’m ready._

Andras pitches his voice to carry across the assembled clans. “Highest One, I bring before you three traitors to the People, whom I discovered plotting to ruthlessly slaughter Clan Eluned. Though it pains me as a proud son of Vaharel, I surrender our Master Tradesman, our Mistress of the Hunt, and High Keeper Selan to your Judgement. My position as First means my duty to the clan and the People stands paramount to my duty as a son.” He glances once at the fierce old mage before turning his back.

Deshanna folds her hands atop her staff. “Eluned? You would need to cross the Waking Sea to reach the Brecilian. Unless you meant to go by foot, to drag your children and elderly through the heartlands of Ferelden _and_ Orlais.”

“Althon here has been falsifying the clan ledgers for months.” Andras nudges the sour-faced Tradesman with his foot. “We found stashes of coin set aside for passage, when our women and children went hungry during the winter months. And several of our oldest relics mysteriously went missing. They are likely lost to us now, our heritage bartered away for mere gold.” 

A murmur rises through the crowd. Deshanna holds her hand up for silence before turning to Andras. “What proof do you have?”

Andras spreads his hands before him, his voice sorrowful. “Alas, the ledgers were destroyed by Huntmistress Lialya before I could bring them to you, Highest One. Further proof of their guilt!”

“I acted on orders from my Keeper!” The woman fights her bonds and bares her teeth in a snarl. “All I did, I did for him, and for the People. That seth’lin girl-child had to be stopped before she brought ruin to all the clans!”

Deshanna leans forward in her seat. “You speak of Keeper Lanaya, and her negotiations with the Crown of Ferelden?”

Lialya sneers. “Negotiations. The Landsmeet will never grant the Dalish sovereign soil, though we fought and bled for them while our city brethren cowered in their Alienage.”

“If you believe the land will never be given, then why attack Eluned at all?” Deshanna addresses the kneeling woman directly. “Why spill elven blood?”

“Eluned should never have asked for land in the first place! The Eye of Vengeance rides at the vanguard against threats to the People, and those negotiations were an axe above our necks just waiting to fall. Lanaya intended to put a proposal before the next Arlathvhen: for all clans to assemble in the Brecilian Forest to establish a new elven kingdom and a new Halamshiral. But the People cannot survive if we are tied to one place! How long before the shemlen send their armies and templars to hunt us down?”

“And with Lanaya dead, you could ensure both the end of the negotiations and that the proposal would never reach the Arlathvhen to be put to a vote amongst all the Keepers.” Deshanna drums her fingers against her staff. “I see.” She turns to the last prisoner, the old mage. “And all of this was on High Keeper Selan’s orders?”

“Yes. May Dirthamen himself strike me down if my tongue tells falsely.” Lialya lowers her eyes to her bound hands. “I know what we planned was wrong. For one clan to spill the blood of another is an unforgivable crime, but the Eye of Vengeance could not be swayed from his path. And I owe my obedience to him.”

“She’s lying!” Althon shouts. “The gold was set aside for new aravels and weapons from Tanaleth, and nothing to do with the High Keeper or his plans! If I am guilty of anything, then my crimes are an internal matter and should be judged only within Clan Vaharel!” Sweat beads on his forehead. “The Scales of Judgement have no jurisdiction over me!”

“New aravels, you say? New weapons?” Andras voice rises over the angry mutterings of the crowd. “The clan sets aside a portion of our trade for all these things! Why would you need _more_?”

Althon whimpers, hunching in on himself. “I...I...my crimes are against Vaharel only. I kept the gold for my own personal use. The Eye of Vengeance had no knowledge of my doings.” Tears run down his face. “Please, you must believe me! I am a traitor to my clan, but I had no part in this plot against Eluned.”

“Oh, Althon.” Andras’ voice is heavy with sorrow. “I’ve known you since I was a boy. You always put the clan first. Do so one last time, and tell us where your orders came from. Stop protecting a man who would cut down innocents in the name of justice.”

“I swear it,” Althon sobs. “He had no knowledge: I did it for my own greed.” He bows as far as his bonds will allow, head bent nearly to the floor. “Please. I knew nothing of this scheme.”

“And the relics?” Deshanna steeples her fingers, her eyes obscured behind the silk ribbon. “Clan Lavellan’s artifacts are under the care of the Keeper. Our Master Tradeswoman would need my express permission to sell one. Is this not so for Vaharel?”

Andras nods gravely. “It is the same for us. Althon could not have gotten his hands on our artifacts without my father’s involvement.” He sighs. “Your lie is exposed, lethallin.”

Deshanna stands and speaks directly to the onlookers. “I will allow the accused one last chance to defend themselves, but will anyone here speak for their innocence?”

The crowd grows hushed and tense, but no one comes forward. Ellorian does her best to shift her grip on the bowl surreptitiously; her arms have started to cramp from holding it still for so long. _It’s almost done. Just hold on a little longer. Creators, don’t let me fail now._

“Then let me hear their pleas and I will render Judgement.”

Deshanna steps toward Huntmistress Lialya, drawing Ellorian after her with a gesture. “You say you were acting under orders from your Keeper, that your crimes were committed as a duty to the clan.”

“Yes.” The woman shivers in her bonds. “Yes, I only meant to serve. Creators, all I wished was to serve.”

“And would you continue to serve faithfully to another? To rededicate yourself to your Clan?”

Lialya looks to Andras with tears in her eyes. “I would. I swear it.”

Deshanna cups a handful of salt water from the bowl in her daughter’s hands. “As the All-Mother was born of the Earth’s salt tears, so shall you be reborn from the tears of those you have wronged.” She pours the water over the prisoner’s head. “Mythal grants you mercy this day; see you use her gift wisely. If I should ever have need to Judge you again, I will not be so lenient a second time.” 

“Thank you. Mythal’enaste, Highest One.” Lialya sags as Lavellan hunters cut her ropes. “Thank you.”

Althon gives a low moan when the High Keeper of Mythal steps before him. “Please, I didn’t know--”

“Althon of Clan Vaharel, your words are proven false at every turn.” Deshanna doesn’t give him time to beg. “Your greed and thoughtlessness alone would have earned you an execution, perhaps even the Fangs of Fen’harel for your treachery. Not only did you allow your own people to suffer, but you did so with further murder in mind.” She grips her staff in both hands and holds the blade to his neck. “I judge you guilty of treason against the People, and sentence you to death. Falon’din guide your soul to the Beyond, for you will know no peace in this life.”

The blade glides across his throat in a slow arc and red wetness bubbles up from the gaping gash. Ellorian locks her knees, tries to keep the water from splashing in the bowl. A few spilled drops dot her long sleeves, dark against the pale linen. _It’s just like butchering a deer. That’s all. I’ve seen that a thousand times._ There is a strange sort of ringing in her ears, a toneless buzzing that carries over the jeering crowd. Ellorian can see heads nodding in approval, fierce eyes and tight mouths grim with satisfaction, but her father’s is not among them. His eyes are burning on her in a bloodless pale face, his expression pained. She feels her heart sink. _Papae doesn’t think I can do it. I’ll show him! I’ll show him he doesn’t need to worry!_ Ellorian meets Raelorn’s eyes and stands a little straighter, gives him a tremulous smile. _See, Papae?_

He shuts his eyes and turns away from her. 

Ellorian swallows the lump in her throat. _What did I do?_ She steps carefully around the growing pool of blood as she follows her mother to the last prisoner, still kneeling in his paralysis glyph. _Why is Papae upset with me?_ Her arms ache and ache from the weight of the vessel but she dare not let it waver, not now. 

“Dispel the rune,” Deshanna orders. “The Eye of Vengeance will have one chance to speak for his actions.”

High Keeper Selan’s face remains calm, but his eyes are contemptuous under his snow white brows. He flexes the muscles of his jaw as the magic bindings loosen, rolls his shoulders as well as his chains will allow. Though aged, his scarred face is hard and lean; an old warrior and a veteran of many battles. Even chains cannot diminish his pride; his eyes gleam at his First. ”Ah, Andras. My _loyal_ son.” His tone is dry and mocking. “Ambition breeds ambition, and you are blood of mine, after all. I suppose I should be proud.” When Selan’s gaze sweeps over Ellorian on the way to her mother, she shivers. He smiles at that, a predator’s smile in the face of a cornered quarry. “You have overreached at last, She-Wolf: Devoured your own tail in your avarice.” He ignores the Lavellan hunters gripping belt knives at the offense to their Keeper. “A High Keeper cannot be dismissed without a full gathering of Eight. You know this.”

If Deshanna is unnerved under that gaze, her face doesn’t show it. “Your crimes are against the People themselves. I have the authority--”

“You have _no_ authority over _me_ ,” he hisses. “And your thinly veiled attempt to--”

Deshanna steps forward, her face stony. “High Keeper Selan, you are charged with inciting violence against the People at the expense of your own clan. Your position as Keeper is forfeit, your authority as Eye of Vengeance stripped from you. Since the People cannot afford to lose a battlemage of your caliber, I will spare your life. You will spend the rest of your days with the northern clans, helping the People hunt Tevinter slavers.”

Selan laughs. “You’ll spare me, will you? How kind.” He shakes his head. “Very well. You’ve won, Deshanna. Well played.” His eyes flicker to Ellorian and back to her mother. It makes Ellorian take an involuntary step back, sloshing a spoonful of water over the bowl’s rim. 

Something in Deshanna’s stance softens infinitesimally. “Release him, but keep him under guard. Clan Dehra will send hunters to bring him to his new post.” She brusquely beckons Ellorian forward with the bowl as his chains are unlocked and scoops up another handful of water. “As the All-Mother was born of--”

Everything seems to happen at once.

As soon as his hands are free Selan leaps to his feet snarling, his arms outstretched for Ellorian. Time seems to slow. She can see his hands coming closer, closer, fire blossoming in his palms. Someone is screaming, but she doesn’t know who.

Ellorian reacts purely on instinct. She hurls the bowl of salt water at the Eye of Vengeance with all her might and calls lightning, a pure shock of force and ozone crackling through her fingers. The blow takes the old man hard enough to knock him off his feet where he lays, the front of his robes smoking faintly. 

The emptiness in her chest where her mana was expended hits her like a hammer striking a nail, driving her down onto her knees. The ringing in her ears is now an all-consuming roar, sweeping her up in a tumult of sound. Someone picks her up, hauls her to her feet. _Mamae?_ Ellorian can’t make out Deshanna’s words over the din of noise. Her mother speaks empty words, her ribbon ripped away and her pearls dishevelled as she holds Ellorian by the shoulders and mouths something Ellorian can’t make out. Her vision goes grey at the edges. _Mamae, what’s happening?_

Someone rips her out of her mother’s arms, lifts her into the air. _Papae._ Raelorn is shouting something too, screaming something at Deshanna until spittle flies from his lips. _No. Please. No more fighting._ He cradles her to his chest, rubs her back soothingly. Ellorian closes her eyes as a wave of dizziness washes over her. Papae kisses the top of her head, strokes her hair. Then blackness takes her. 

“--should be proud of her, Raelorn. She stood her ground when another child would have run and been cut down.”

Ellorian can hear her mother’s quiet voice, can feel the furs piled atop her heavy against her chest. She keeps her eyes closed. _I’m not snooping, I’m just resting._ Her head buzzes. _I’m so tired._

“She should never have been there in the first place.” Calloused fingers stroke Ellorian’s cheek. “And now she will need to live with the burden of his death on her hands. My poor child.” Papae sighs like the wind blowing over a lonely mountaintop. “I hope you’re happy, wife.” He touches Ellorian’s cheek one more time before she hears the tent flap open and his footsteps recede into the distance. 

Someone clears their throat. “A valiant little thing. She did not even flinch when he came at her.”

Mamae snorts a laugh. “Powerful, too. I doubt I could have cast lighting that strongly even at twice her age, and _without a staff_.” A hand squeezes Ellorian’s foot through the furs; she tries not to squirm. “Selan underestimated her dearly.”

“My father was a lot of things, but he was no coward.” Ellorian recognizes that voice now. _Andras._ “I did not relish having to kill him myself. It is better this way. No one will call her to account for acting in self-defense.”

“How long will it take you to be confirmed as High Keeper?”

Andras chuckles. “Vaharel’s council has already confirmed me as Keeper to replace my father, and Thelrion as First. With no other blood relative it is only a matter of time. No allied clans posses the strength to challenge us for primacy; I am all but confirmed already.”

“I trust you will not forget your friends come the next Arlathvhen.” Mamae’s hand strokes Ellorian’s ankle. 

“Of course not. Vaharel will stand with Lavellan when Lanaya brings her proposal before the clans. If the negotiations come through, I will vote for the formation of a new elven kingdom.” Andras pauses for a moment before resuming. “Two mage children already, and the third may yet still be. A shame I cannot match you, Deshanna. I would offer you a daughter to marry your Emaris, had the Creators seen fit to bless me with any.” His tone takes on a sly quality Ellorian dislikes. “Of course, Thelrion is only three years older than--”

“Absolutely not.” Mamae’s voice is as cold as a crumbling glacier. “Ellorian is not up for negotiation, Andras. She must remain with Lavellan if she is to be High Keeper one day. Unless you would send Thelrion _here_?”

Andras coughs. “Ah. Unfortunately I have only the one son. Had his elder brother lived… but no. Thelrion must stay with me as my heir.”

“Then I am afraid we are at an impasse.” Mamae sounds amused. “What will you do with Lialya? I must congratulate her, that was quite a performance.”

 _A performance?_ Ellorian fights to keep her face still, to keep her breathing even. _What are they talking about?_

“She was planning on stepping down as Mistress of the Hunt in favor of her son anyway. When I found Althon was skimming gold from our coffers well...” Andras chortles. “It was only too easy to stash a few of our less valuable artifacts and convince her to turn. Father might have been a renowned battlemage, but it was _me_ who brought trade when we were hungry, who cultivated allies when he would have had Vaharel stand alone.”

“I have the assurances of three other Great Clans. Should King Alistair grant Eluned the land on offer, we will have enough votes to form a majority.”

“And if that majority is not enough to quell the more isolationist clans, Vaharel alone can call three thousand warriors. With the allied clans at my disposal--”

“If we are careful, it will not come to that.” Mamae makes her voice patient as if explaining something to Ellorian’s four-year-old brother Aeron. “See that you _are_ careful, Andras. Remember. The Scales of Judgement can also call _you_ to account if I suspect innocent blood was shed due to your _eagerness_.”

“Of course, Highest One. But it is getting late. If I may withdraw?”

“You may.”

Ellorian waits for a slow count of thirty after she can no longer hear Andras’ shuffling before opening her eyes. She yawns ostentatiously, and squirms out from under the heavy furs of her parents’ bedroll. “Mamae?”

Deshanna beams at her daughter, full lips quirked in a pleased smile. “My clever little mage. How much of that did you hear, da’era?”

“Um… Keeper Andras thinks I’m valiant.” Ellorian sits up fully, rubbing her eyes. “And Papae still doesn’t think I’m ready to be First.” She tries very hard to keep the discontent from her voice.

“Yes.” Deshanna’s voice is wry. “He’s rather put out with me. Moreso since I had to shame him before the clans for his tantruming.”

Ellorian’s heart stops beating, then beats all too quickly. _Creators. I’ve only made things worse._ “W-what--?”

Deshanna raises a single eyebrow. “He may be my husband, but I cannot let him publicly undermine my authority. If you are to be a Keeper worth of Mythal, you must understand that.”

“I understand, Keeper.” Ellorian can feel tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She bites her lip to stop it from trembling. “May I go to my own tent?”

“Of course. You must be tired after that _remarkable_ spell.” Deshanna smiles proudly. “Get some sleep. We must be up early to lay the dead to rest.”

 _The dead._ Ellorian nearly stumbles as she turns and hurries out of the tent, remembering the blood and the smoke and the lightning. She wants to be far, far away when the tears come: far enough away that neither of her parents can see her cry. _If they see, they will fight again and Papae will be in even more trouble. It’s all my fault._ She dodges through the camp as quick as her feet will carry her, up the slope of the hill and around into a thin copse of trees. Her breath comes in pants, nearly sobs, and tears blur her vision. _If I had kept my composure, Papae wouldn’t have needed to…_

Ellorian collides with someone, sending them both sprawling. Her breath hitches. _Oh no._ She curls up on her side in the dirt, shaking. The tears are streaming down her face now, and she can’t make them stop. _Go away. Whoever you are, go away._

“Creators! Don’t you look where you’re going?” Thelrion brushes himself off, muttering. “You need to be more--” He stops abruptly, his green eyes wide in the darkness. “Fenhedis. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Ellorian shakes her head. She wants to tell him to _go away_ , but the tears come thick and fast now and if she opens her mouth she is going to start sobbing and never stop. 

“Are you crying?” He looks almost comically concerned, his hair disheveled from their crash. “Elgar’nan! _Please_ don’t cry. I never know what to do with crying girls.” 

She shakes her head again and pulls herself up far enough to put a withered tree to her back and hide her face in her hands. _Go away. Just go away._

“Hey!” Thelrion pokes her shoulder rudely. “C’mon it _can’t_ be all that bad. What’s wrong?”

Ellorian opens her mouth to tell him off like he deserves for being _nosy_ , but a howl comes out instead. “ _It’s all my fault._ ” She dissolves into sobbing, spilling out all the emotions she had kept in check throughout the day in a flood of tears. 

“Dread Wolf take me.” Thelrion plops down next to her, nudging her leg with his. “Alright. _What’s_ all your fault?”

“Mamae and Papae fighting,” she wails. “If I hadn’t fainted like a baby...”

“If you promise to keep quiet, I’ll tell you a secret ok?” His voice just is just asking her to join in on the fun, full of mischief. “But you have to promise first. On your honor, may the Dread Wolf eat you if you blab.”

 _This boy blasphemes with every other word._ The shock of it is enough to jolt her out of her misery a little. She wipes her face on the back of her hand. “I promise. On my honor, may the D-dread Wolf eat me if I blab.”

He looks at her for a long moment, as if weighing her honesty. “I threw up at my first execution. Right in front of everybody.”

“Really?”

Thelrion sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Papae gave me a hiding after, said I shamed him in front of all the clan. I didn’t even cast a spell or anything, so you managed _much_ better than I did.” He grins. “And that lightning bolt was _really_ neat! Just...zzzzzap!” He throws his arms in the air for emphasis. 

Ellorian sniffles. “Thanks.”

He looks at her and cocks his head, a lock of dark hair flopping over his forehead. “Besides, you just cried all over yourself, so you _can’t_ be at fault. Reborn from the salt tears and all that. You know, since you’ll be High Keeper one day?”

“I...I don’t think that’s how it works.” Ellorian looks at him askance. _What a weird boy._

“Sure it is!” His smile is infectious. “Don’t disrespect your elders!”

“Elders? You’re just a _boy_.” Ellorian infuses the word with all the scorn a girl with two brothers can summon, affronted. _Who does he think he is?_

Thelrion pinches her cheek. “Still makes me older than _you_...”

By the time the moon rises, Ellorian is laughing.


	2. Written in Snow (Firstfall, 9:38 Dragon)

**Chapter 2: Written in Snow (Firstfall, 9:38 Dragon)**

Her hair tickles his nose when she stirs, her soft skin pressing along the line of his body for a brief moment. Then she is gone, only a fading warmth like a memory of the night’s passions lingering beside him in the bedroll. Her bedroll. The knowledge makes Thelrion smile, nuzzling his face back into the furs. 

Their lovemaking had not been discreet, but Thelrion was beyond caring, his patience worn thin as the Bel’Serannas revelries grew ever wilder. Ellorian had lead him by the hand to her tent giggling and rosy-cheeked from the snow, the bonfires reflected in her eyes and a wreath of silk flowers, his gift to her, woven in her hair. The blossoms lie scattered across the floor now, forget-me-nots and rosebuds tossed aside in his haste to taste her until that pink flush spread to every inch of her skin. He plucks one up and runs the soft petals over his lips, smirking. _Why should we hide? What shame is there in…_ He can’t make himself complete that thought. Not until he hears it from Ellorian herself. Not until he’s sure she feels the same way. _Only an idiot would presume to know the mind of another, especially hers. Still…_

He rolls onto his back indolently, arms behind his head, and breathes in the scent of her: sun-dried sweetgrass and dawn lotus mingled with the newer tang of sweat and sex. Of both of them, together. _As it should be_ , his mind whispers. As he wishes it _could_ be, even if pragmatism tells him otherwise. Neither of them are free to pledge themselves to anything other than duty. He will be Eye of Vengeance when his father passes into the Beyond and she… a stranger with eyes veiled in black silk: impartial, impassive, impersonal. A High Keeper in her own right, and as out of reach as the moon. He sets his jaw stubbornly against that image. Perhaps if they are both very clever, if their families can be persuaded, if…

He hears the crunch of approaching footsteps in snow and a man’s voice, pitched too low to make out the words through the felted walls of the tent. Thelrion turns on his side, fully prepared to go back to sleep, but the muffled reply is in Ellorian’s own sweet lilt. 

“--none of your business, Emaris.” She sounds tired and vexed, teeth chattering in the cold. “Leave it be.”

“Your business is the entire clan’s business. You know that.” 

Thelrion rolls his eyes at the the other man’s pomposity. Sometimes he finds it difficult to remember that Ellorian’s prig of a brother is only a few months younger than himself: Emaris has a pedantic way of talking that always reminds him of a hahren’s stern lecturing. 

Ellorian keeps her voice to a quiet hiss, defensive before her harshest critic and most bitter rival. “This has no bearing on the clan. Now _go away_.” 

Emaris’s response is as chilled as the frosty night. “He’s a good man. You shouldn’t lead him on.” His voice softens some. “Or yourself, for that matter.” 

Eyebrows rising nearly to his hairline, Thelrion abandons all pretense of returning to slumber and the Beyond. Call it arrogance, but he finds it unlikely they could be discussing any man other than himself. _Not after the spectacle we made of ourselves, at least._ Guilt stirs in his belly. _We should have been more circumspect._

“How am I leading him on?” Ellorian gives a laugh like the tinkling of silver bells. “Thelrion knows his duty, as do I. I’ve made him no promises.”

It is the simple truth, though Thelrion could wish it otherwise. They had not exchanged any vows of fidelity, not when they spent so much of the year apart. The clans must hold their devotion more tightly than any lover’s arms could. His mind rebels, chafing at the restraints of obligations that were never meant to be his. More than ever, he wishes with all his heart that Varien had lived.

“Do you think we’re all as blind as he is?” Emaris must be gritting his teeth, to sound so frustrated. “Everyone can see the way the two of you look at each other and...” He sighs heavily. “Please, sister. I just don’t want to see you hurt. Eventually, you will have to choose--”

“You know, I almost believed you were sincere.” This time, Ellorian’s laugh is as harsh as the wind, ghosting through the trees’ winter-bare branches. ”You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To see me to prove myself unworthy. Well, you can just prepare to be disappointed. Thelrion would never make me choose between him and the clan.”

Again, she speaks only the truth. _And with such certainty._ Thelrion closes his eyes, suddenly tired beyond the day’s exertions. His chest aches hollowly with every breath of icy air. _What man could outweigh the Scales of Justice?_ Try as he might, he would never make up the difference; she would be forever torn between him and her duty, and he could never intentionally cause her pain. _Let me live the lie. Just a little longer._

His breathing is even and slow when Ellorian re-enters the tent in a swirl of biting cold, a bloom of heat immediately washing over his face from her threads of fire magic. Thelrion cracks one eye open when she fails to return directly to the bedroll; instead he finds her bent at the waist, gathering the silk flowers into a posey. In the still darkness of the pre-dawn hours, her golden hair hangs in waves of molten silver, obscuring her face as she packs the trinkets neatly away into a small cedar chest. 

Thelrion returns to feigning sleep, listening to the rustle of clothing as she undresses. Ellorian shivers as she wriggles back under the furs, though her skin is soft and warm against his. He lets his arm settle around her waist, keeps the movement natural as if just stirring from slumber. Her shoulders tremble against his chest as he presses his lips to the top of her head.

“Thel?” Her whisper is so faint, tremulous and without music. 

_I love you._ The words echo in his heart, but remain unspoken. _It’s for the best._

He remains as silent as the gently falling snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Arcanista for editing, and to Mythalenaste for giving me the prompt in the first place: Things you said when you thought I was asleep. Set directly after her drabble, Bel'Serannas. Find it here:  
> http://ladyartanis.tumblr.com/post/135966110834/belserannas


	3. Written in Sand (Kingsway, 9:37 Dragon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW! Enjoy!

**Chapter 3: Written in the Sand (Kingsway, 9:37 Dragon)**

The dress is just the slightest bit too large for her.

Not that Thelrion minds, exactly. He’s never been one to pay much attention to clothing beyond that it keeps his armor from chafing and the sand out of his smalls. But the neckline sits just a little too wide over her delicate collarbones, dips just a little too low over the soft swell of her breasts...

“--can you stand this heat?”

He wrenches his eyes back to her face.

Ellorian blooms like a Silent Plains rose, flushed under her dusting of summer freckles. A cloud of silt swirls at her every step as she wades deeper into the river, the linen of her skirt damp despite her best efforts to keep her hems dry. She tips her face up to the last dying rays of the sun, the waters of the Sennua lapping gently against her thighs. “I feel like I’m melting.”

“Imagine what it’s like around Justinian.” His mouth is too dry, as if they stand in the dust of the desert in high summer instead of cool on the banks of the largest river he’d ever known as a boy. She crossed the Minater to come here. This is just a creek to her. “Iralen cooked an egg just by cracking it over a stone, once. You’d burn to a crisp.”

“That’s when the wind picks up, right?” She stands so still among the reeds, a pale wading bird in grey feathers. “The season of the All-Father’s triumph.”

That she wishes to learn of his home, learn of Vaharel’s ways... he clears his throat. “Your dress is getting wet.” He wants to smooth his thumb over the small cracks in her lips before covering them with his. She hasn’t been drinking enough. Hers is a land of soft grasses and rolling hills, with trees to give her shade. The Nevarran sun would wilt her, if she didn’t take care.

“I don’t mind.” Even so, she hikes her skirt to her hips absently, more interested in the large turtle perched on a nearby rock.

Thelrion chuckles, eyebrows climbing. No smallclothes today? “You will when the temperature drops. Nights are cold here.”

She glances back at him over her shoulder, her violet eyes crinkling at the corners. “Cold? I’m not sure you know what that word means anymore.” Her mouth quirks in a coy smile. Such a little thing, to make his heart beat faster. Such an inconsequential-- “But if you’re so concerned...”

The fabric whispers against her skin as she pulls the dress up over her head. Slowly, the tease. Deliberately. Her eyes never leave his. Thelrion swallows hard, feeling like a fennec in the sight of a hungry varghest. She wears not a stitch of clothing underneath, not even a breastband, the sunset painting her skin in fire and her hair in molten gold.

Dread Wolf take me. I would die a happy man.

“An ambush, is it?” He almost fumbles the catch when she flings the dress at him, amusement plain on her face. The dove grey linen crumples in his grip, tiny mother-of-pearl buttons leaving indents in his palms. Much too big, if she doesn’t even need to unbutton it to take it off.

“Ambush?” Ellorian tosses her long hair over her shoulder, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. There’s a smugness in the tilt of her chin, a sweetness in the curve of her mouth. “When the prey stumbles into the trap like a--”

He crosses the space between them in three splashing strides, toes dug into the soil of his home and fingers tangled in her hair, her lips crushed to his. She shivers when his tongue runs over the seam of her mouth, and Thelrion can’t stop himself from groaning as her lips part under his. He is ablaze with the warmth of her skin under his palms, drowning in the taste of her, careless of the mud leaking into his greaves or the river soaking into his breeches.

When they part for air, the moon hangs low and full in the sky, and Thelrion is certain he will never remember what it means to be cold ever again.

Slim hands tug at his cuirass, yanking fitfully at straps and buckles. He smirks, his lips pressed hard against the soft skin where neck meets shoulder. “Patience is a virtue, or so I’ve been told.” His grin only widens at her noise of frustration, at the way her breath hitches when he nibbles at her collarbone, her hips grinding slowly against his thigh.

“Not my virtue,” she gasps. “Mine is more...” A last buckle comes free. “...tenacity!”

His cuirass hits the river bank with a clatter, followed by his left vambrace. Thelrion’s throw goes wide when she palms him through his breeches, and his right vambrace goes skidding into the reeds. He can’t bring himself to give a damn, not when her hands slip under the hem of his shirt, palms splayed warm against his stomach. Ellorian nips him the first time he tries to pull away, and he huffs a laugh as arousal winds even tighter in his belly. “The shirt, lethallan.”

Elgar’nan, but how her haste fuels his, sets a wanting in his bones at the need in her eyes. An ache in his cock and in his heart to bury himself inside her until there is nothing but the two of them under the empty sky. He almost sends them both into the river, feet sliding in the mud and arms tangled up in his shirt, at the feel of his laces sliding open and her lips sealing hot and wet around his length, tongue swirling against the sensitive underside. The minx. He snarls a curse and wrestles the shirt over his head, hurls it at the river bank with all his strength.

“Language.” Her tone is chiding and smoky all at once, and she draws the word out like a ribbon of black honey, tongue flicking over his tip to taste the bead of precum already welling there.

Fenedhis, but this woman…

Ellorian giggles mischievously as he hauls her into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and pressing kisses to the underside of his jaw. “That was not fair,” he tells her, gravely, as he carries them both to dry land. “Taking advantage of a poor man.” She squeals a laugh when he smacks her bottom, roughly palming the soft flesh of her ass. When his hand dips lower he finds  her thighs slick with river water and her own desire.

“Awww poor da’len.” Her voice is a breathy purr, her fingernails scraping lightly down the nape of his neck. She is wet, wicked, and writhing in his grip, and her smile hides a thousand wanton noises. He wants to hear every one, coax them from her with his fingers and tongue, with any piece of him she wishes. “You know you love it.”

“That I do.” His lips brush hers, softly teasing until her breath catches. “That I do.”

His sodden greaves positively squelch on the packed, dry earth. I’ll be cleaning grit out of my gear for days, but Creators if this isn’t worth it. The plush press of her lips on his shoulder turns to a gliding tongue, and Thelrion hisses when her sharp little teeth settle over his jugular. “Careful,” he admonishes her. “Or I’ll drop you.” There is no bed of leaves or lush grass to lay her on, not here, but the sands should still be comfortably warm from the sun. And I’ll keep her warmer still. Now, where to--

He only has a split second of warning, her barrier thrumming electric against his skin, before she lurches against him and they are both tumbling to the ground like in one of their childhood sparring matches. For a moment he is breathless, weightless, remembering their very first stolen kiss on another distant riverbank so long ago. Then his back hits the sands hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

She is on him before he can catch his breath, and the feel of her hands around his cock steals what little air remains to him in a shuddering moan. “Dread Wolf take me.”

“He had better not,” she quips. Her quick fingers stroke him base to tip and back again before giving him a squeeze. Thelrion grits his teeth, his hips arching reflexively into her fist. “I’m not finished with you.”

Nor I with you. The urge to sink himself into her wet heat, to watch her ride him until her pleasure peaks and her shaking legs will no longer support her weight, to guide her hips with his hands until her cries echo across the vast entirety of the Silent Plains, is enough to drive him mad. Not yet, he thinks, desperately. Not until I’ve repaid her in full for this.

It’s such a simple thing, to grip her thighs and heave. Ellorian yelps in surprise, bracing her hands on either side of his head as he draws her cunt down to his waiting mouth. He licks her open with one long sweep of his tongue, and even with her thighs to muffle the sounds he can hear her keen above him.

Thelrion sighs in bliss, nuzzling her clit with his nose. She is so wet for him already, the tang of her coating his chin as he drinks his fill. With every pass of his tongue her moans grow louder, her hips rocking harder and faster against his face. He doesn’t mind. He could feast on her for hours yet, cradle her lovely weight against his palms until he is the only thing holding her up. Ar tu sulahnehn, emm’asha. Her thighs tremble and she slumps onto her elbows, back arched like a drawn bow. Sing for me.

Her high wail as she comes is the sweetest music in the world.

Ellorian is still panting when he guides himself into her, his lips tracing the curve of her spine as she quivers under his tattooed hands. The needle barbs of Elgarn’nan’s thorns seem sharp enough to pierce and draw blood, his fingers gripping her hips hard enough to dimple the skin. Her head bows, hair spilling over her shoulders like a fall of silk, and his tongue follows the phases of the moon inked along the back of her neck: new, crescent, half, waxing, full.

He takes her gently at first, feeling her stretch around his girth; shallow thrusts that leave her whimpering and rocking back against him, a command plain as day. As if he had the heart to deny her anything. As if he could hold back, when it’s his name that falls from her lips like a bitter prayer and a tender curse. The slick heat of her sets his blood thundering in his ears, and he matches that rhythm with his hips, chasing her pleasure like running down a deer.

She is a wanton little thing, demanding and shameless as she fucks herself against him, her fingers buried in the sand. The sight alone is nearly enough to undo him: her thighs spread and back arched, his cock sliding into her folds, coated with her juices. He presses his face to her shoulder and tries to steady his ragged breathing, but he can’t bite back his own harsh noises as she clenches around him, close.

All it takes is a few hard thrusts, his fingers circling her clit, and Ellorian comes again, her face flushed and lips parted in a wordless cry. His hips jerk into her erratically, his rhythm lost to the fire licking through his veins. The pounding of his own heartbeat. The feel of her cunt gripping him. The rush of pleasure roars through him like a summer wind storm, scouring him away to leave nothing but bare white bones.

For a long minute it’s all he can do to keep himself from collapsing atop her, panting and dizzy. He nearly does anyway, legs tangling in his sodden breeches, before settling beside her and taking her in his arms. She rests her cheek over his heart, the sand clinging to their sweat slick skin, and Therion strokes her hair as their breathing quiets. Her eyelashes flutter softly against his chest. The silence is too precious to break, the darkness smoothing out the harsh edges of the world. Yet there words there, unspoken, on the tip of his tongue. Looking at her face, sleepy-sweet and satisfied, Thelrion feels a strange yearning to say...he doesn’t know what. Something. He closes his eyes, and a breath of air shushes through the reeds, almost a sigh.

They stay like that for a long while, listening to the other’s heartbeat and the rising chirruping of crickets. When she curls closer against the chill night air, Thelrion calls his mana to settle just beneath his skin. His magic is the fierce sun of the Silent Plains, the blazing wrath of the All-Father, and she snuggles her face into the crook of his neck, content. It gives him hope that, perhaps, one day, he can take her further north without fear. There are wildflowers that bloom for a cherished few weeks of the autumn, delicate life peeking between cracks in the parched earth, the exact same violet as her eyes. Slight as she is, his hart will have no trouble carrying them both; if they had just a few more weeks he could-- his hands settle on her waist, and Ellorian stretches languidly against him, her bare toes pressed against his ruined greaves.

Exhausted, no doubt. “And is the huntress satisfied with her prey?” Even his whisper seems too loud for this perfect moment, rasping in his throat.  

She presses a soft kiss to the thin scar on his neck. “Don’t smirk, it’s unbecoming.”

His grin only grows wider. He can feel her smile against his skin, sense it in the way she hides her face against his shoulder. Not from me, lovely one. Never from me. His fingers under her chin tip her face up to his, and he brushes his lips against the upturned corners of her mouth. “Be coming? I think you already--”

She silences him with another kiss, and even tired to his bones, desire stirs in him like a candle flared to life. Time to press my luck. “Andruil’s Ass, woman. I know I’m irresistible, but a man needs some rest.”

This time she quiets him with lips, tongue, and teeth, nipping at his bottom lip roughly. “You're terrible,” she breathes when they part for air. Her eyes dance, reflecting the moonlight.

Thelrion brushes a few grains of sand from her cheek. “Then why are you smiling?” Her hand is warm in his, fingers entwined, her body warmer still.

Thin in the distance, a shrill horn blows a double call. A warband, riding in from the northeast. He can see the exact moment she remembers the rest of the world exists, a shadow passing across her face like clouds veiling the moon. Her smile fades. “We should get back to camp soon.”

“Not yet.” In the morning they will be polite acquaintances again, but here on the banks of the Sennua he wants to see her. Not the dutiful First of Clan Lavellan. Not the girl who carries a silver bowl of tears. He runs his thumb over ink branches bare of leaves until she smiles again and leans into his palm.

The moon rises higher, and Thelrion maps the contours of her body as he brushes the dried sand away. Ellorian does the same for him, fingertips tracing lightly over his scars, scolding him over the newest ones. He tells her outrageous lies to explain the thin line on his bicep from an arrow his barrier couldn’t completely deflect, the crescent on his foot from the time a big red hart yearling stepped on him during training. She laughs, wrinkling her nose at every improbable story, her hair a tousled silver nimbus in the moonlight. He smooths his fingers through that too, working the tangles apart as he memorizes her with his hands.

He swings her around in a giddy circle when she manages to find his vambrace, only slightly muddy, and she commiserates over the soggy leather straps of his greaves. His uncle Tarenan will likely give him fits over it, but that is a worry for tomorrow. Tonight, Thelrion wishes he could stop the stars in the sky, hold the sun deep down in the earth so that the dawn will never come. Ellorian presses her lips to his and he wonders if she feels the same way.

“I can’t find my dress.”

Thelrion freezes in the act of pulling on his still-damp breeches to stare at her. She always manages to catch me with my pants around my ankles, why is that? “What?”

“My dress.” Her eyes scan the glittering black river frantically. “I can’t find it.”

They search a hundred paces up and down the riverbank, but there is no sign of grey linen anywhere. Thelrion even risks calling fire to his palm, though any sort of light can be seen for miles and miles out in the desert, a beacon in the night for any foe-- or their respective parents-- to find them by. Their shadows stretch long, dancing apart before coming together again.

Ellorian presses her lips together in frustration, anxiety in her folded arms. “What do we do? I can’t just walk through camp in my skin.”

“Why not?” He keeps his voice light, pulling her back to his chest. His fingers knead gently at her shoulders until they relax. “Just tell them we were sparring.”

She looks at him askance, eyes large and liquid. “Sparring with no clothes. In the middle of the night.”

“Sure.” He nudges her cheek with his nose. “I got distracted during a fire spell and accidentally burned your dress off.” Her shoulders tremble against his chest, and he presses the advantage with a kiss to her ear. “It’s that simple.”

“This isn’t funny Thel!” She turns her face away, but he know she’s smiling by the curve of her cheek. “We were supposed to be discreet this time!”

“Really?” His lips find the back of her neck. “Because I’m pretty sure half of Nevarra heard you--” Her elbow to his gut doesn’t hurt. Really it doesn’t. Still, he wraps his arms around her and the movement just happens to pin her arms to her sides. “It’s a shame you know,” he sighs into her hair. “I rather liked that dress.”

Ellorian leans her head back against his shoulder. “I thought you might.”

Thelrion finds the dress the day after she leaves. The waters of the Sennua could never be called swift, but somehow they had carried it near a mile downriver to snag on a sandbar. The glint of mother-of-pearl buttons catches his eye first, a little scrap of grey against the deep green of the river, sweeping lines of embroidery rumpled and soaked. By some kind of luck, the dahla’mythal reaches leafless branches for the sky, roots half buried in the mud. He smooths it out as best he can before hanging it to dry on his saddle horn, and thinks of the woman who had laughed and sung and danced beneath the cloth. Who wore it just for him, planting a tree where sand should eat away the roots. Thelrion smiles to himself and reins his hart northward.

**Author's Note:**

> Special Thanks to Arcanista for editing! <3


End file.
